


A Shot in the Dark

by xsnarksthespot



Series: 4 Times They Faked a Fight and the One Time It Was Real [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, M/M, Minor Violence, Mostly Gen, Protectiveness, Whipping, d'Artagnan/Athos if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan saves a servant girl from being whipped by a nobleman. Aramis and Athos fake a fight for distraction while Porthos tries to free their young and impulsive friend.  It doesn't go exactly as planned. </p>
<p>
  <i>“This coulda gone better,” Porthos jokes grimly, a swipe of his hand over his neck coming away streaked in faint red. Aramis lifts careful hands to his friend’s throat, inspecting the wound with concerned eyes, and mutters something under his breath that makes Porthos’ mouth twitch.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I suggest we adjourn to the den where we can discuss this like gentlemen,” Athos sighs. Broulard’s scoff is high-pitched and indignant, which makes d’Artagnan want to reach out and drag the man to the other room by his throat. He doesn’t, but it’s a close call. Instead, he squares his shoulders and leads the awkward march with as much dignity as he can muster.</i>
</p>
<p>[The fourth in a series that will each have a different Musketeer's POV, until the last piece when they'll all get a say. This one is d'Artagnan. Which means it's hot-tempered and full of drama.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shot in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime between episodes 9 & 10.

d’Artagnan has made many stupid mistakes in his life, but this isn’t one of them. Not to him. 

He can still hear the servant girl scream. One of those broken sounds that violently bursts from a person when the pain is too much for pride and stubbornness to contain. Even now, in the quiet of the tiny storage room he’s been locked in for an hour, d’Artagnan can see the tear streaks on her face as he came rushing around a corner, pistol in hand. He can hear the crack of the whip as it cut through the air and left a raw welt across her back amongst a half dozen others, some weeping blood. He can _feel_ the rage that swelled up inside of him like a gathering storm.

The young Musketeer is not completely oblivious to his faults. He knows he has a temper and that he strikes out when he believes there has been an injustice.

But this is beyond injustice in his eyes. This is blatant _evil_. And he feels no shame for how he stalked into the room and snatched the whip out of the lesser nobleman’s hand. He doesn’t regret any of the words he shouted, nor the way he cracked the whip at the man's legs, just to watch fear bloom in his outraged eyes, bright and sharp. 

Now, though, with his blood cooled, d’Artagnan knows there will be a price to pay. More so even than the beating he received at the hands of Broulard’s brute of a valet, who snuck up on him while he was seeing to the girl.

They’d been lodged at the nobleman’s house for a week while the king visited with nobility there in Bordeaux. Apparently, the nobles in this area were starting to get their feathers ruffled over Richelieu’s policies and needed their egos soothed. Treville kept a healthy escort of Musketeers with the King at all times, and then cycled them out with fresh soldiers similarly lodged nearby. This left hours to kill, with strict instructions not to leave the grounds of the property and very few of their customary forms of entertainment at their disposal.

d’Artagnan is fairly sure he could live the rest of his life without ever laying eyes on another deck of cards and die a happy man. 

He thinks it must be fate that drove him from the table. Well, he thinks _now_ it must be fate. At the time it was the fact that a quiet bickering session between Aramis and Porthos was steadily getting out of hand while Athos pretended to doze under his hat nearby and the sun relentlessly beat down upon them. d’Artagnan knows tensions were running high, but he’s still unsure if stifling heat and boredom are the only thing that pushed two friends to snap at each other.

_”You are a terrible cheat.”_

_“Oi! My purse disagrees with you.”_

_“Your purse is only full because we haven’t set foot inside a tavern or brothel in nearly a fortnight.”_

_“That’s hardly the point, Aramis. It’s been months since I set foot inside a--”_

_“Just deal the bloody cards already! If you can manage that without disturbing the two tucked inside your shirt, at any rate.”_

d’Artagnan is fairly sure Porthos kicked Aramis under the table at that point, because the two surged up, close in each other’s faces over the corner of the table. He can’t name the look that passed between them, but it wasn’t anger exactly. Frustration maybe, and something he can’t pinpoint, even in retrospect. 

Need?

No, no, that doesn’t make any sense. Whatever it was, it had Athos shifting his hat back and sighing a warning ‘ _gentlemen_ ’ just before d’Artagnan decided it was time for a walk. He can recall the almost tangible weight at his back and the echo of scuffling sounds as he shook his head and wandered around the south side of the maîson. 

As the memory lingers, d’Artagnan hears voices raise somewhere inside the house. He scoots the overturned bucket he’s been using as a stool closer to the door, ignoring the twinge of pain from the bruises he’s earned, and presses his ear to the wood.

“--dare you blame _me_ for this? I’m not his bloody keeper. He’s a Musketeer now and he should act like one.” d'Artagnan would know Athos’ ‘ _fed up with this shit already_ ’ voice anywhere, but the words are alarming. Confused doubt slices deep through his gut. He thought for sure Athos would forgive him this transgression.

“You’re his mentor! He idolises you. The least you could do is make sure he doesn’t get us all _hanged_.” Aramis sounds riled. Not like himself at all. 

“Oh, that’s rich. Coming from _you_.” 

What does that even mean? Where is Porthos? d’Artagnan’s thoughts are a chaotic mess of guilt and worry and he tries the handle of the door for the tenth time even though he knows it won’t budge.

After a stretch of silence that feels heavy even from his makeshift prison, d’Artagnan hears Aramis’ voice turn sharp and brittle. “That’s right. I forgot you’ve gone and gotten yourself a high horse to judge from, haven’t you? The irony! With the secrets you keep!”

There’s a dull thump of a sound that follows and then an outraged growl, before jostling noises that end in the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. The nobleman’s strangled screech comes soon after. “My vase! Do none of you know how to conduct yourselves properly?!”

More wrestling sounds and a grunt of pain are the only answer he gets as far as d’Artagnan can tell. Baffled panic wells in his chest at the thought that he’s driven his friends to fighting _each other_. It all feels like a terrible dream and he presses his ear more firmly against the door, hoping to catch more of what is going on. 

The sound of a key fitting into the lock jerks him back just in time to avoid tumbling out into the hall at Porthos’ feet. The Musketeer towers over him, a wry grin erasing the worried frown on his face as his gaze falls to d’Artagnan, still awkwardly perched on a bucket.

“Think you may be more trouble than the three of us put together.” Porthos’ teasing voice is a low rumbling whisper as he reaches down to pull d’Artagnan to his feet with gentle urgency.

“I didn’t mean for any of this--” 

Porthos cuts off d’Artagnan’s shrill reply by resting an affectionate hand on the top of his head. “S’alright. We’d have all done the same in your shoes, consequences be damned. Well, I would’ve, for certain. Now c’mon.”

“Where are we going? Wait, wait, Porthos, please--we...we can’t just leave them. They’re fighting because of _me_.” d’Artagnan starts to rush down the hallway towards the sounds of fighting still going on, but he’s quickly yanked backwards by the neck.

“Don’t be an idiot. They’re fightin’ because it was the easiest way to distract our shitheel of a host long enough for me to relieve him of this,” Porthos grunts, holding up the key and lifting his eyebrows. “You don’t actually think they’d go to blows with each other over you savin’ some poor girl’s skin, do ya?”

“Well...no. Not when you put it that way,” d’Artagnan muttered. Relief outweighed embarrassment, though, and a sheepish smile tugged at his mouth before he shot an anxious look back down the hall. “But, Broulard. He’s likely to punish you all if I flee. Surely he’ll report me to the Captain, either way...” 

The possibility of losing the commission he’s only had a couple of months - worse, the family he’s gained - shocks him into stillness. But a heartbeat passes and he’s moving to barrel down the hallway yet again. He won’t let his brothers pay for his choices. _He won’t_.

“ _Easy does it_!” Porthos hisses, quickly pinning d’Artagnan to a wall with his forearm. “Do you have any idea how furious Athos was when one of the servants came runnin’ out to tell us what had happened? I thought for sure he was going to stomp in ‘ere and demand your release with his fists. And this is _Athos_ we’re talkin’ about. So you’re gonna listen ‘ere, alright?” He shoved slightly against d’Artagnan’s chest, apparently only to drive his next words home since he didn’t put his full weight into it. “We’ll sort this out. But you’re not settin’ one damn foot in that room, even if I have to drag you out of this bloody house by your hair.”

That image is enough to make d’Artagnan lift his eyebrows and stifle an amused smirk. Porthos exhales a huff of a laugh and eases back, but still clamps a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Are we good?”

d’Artagnan sighs. “Yes.”

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’m not made of _glass_ ,” d’Artagnan balks, shrugging off Porthos’ now lax grip.

Porthos flashes an approving grin. “No. You’re made of piss and vinegar. But that doesn’t mean you can’t take a beatin’ and need a gentle touch after.” Before d’Artagnan can think to argue, Porthos hooks an arm around his shoulder and squeezes. “You did good, pup. Whatever ‘appens ‘ere, nothin’ is gonna change that, yeah? I’m proud of you.”

Wrinkling his nose at the endearment, d’Artagnan drops his head to hide the flush of warmth in his cheeks. It feels wrong to appreciate his friend’s praise when they’re not in the clear, but his anxiety ebbs away all the same. They’ll sort it out, he’d said. And in that moment, d’Artagnan believes him.

That is, of course, until Broulard’s giant valet (really, he can’t possibly be very good at the delicate tasks expected of a manservant when he can _hardly fit the breadth of his shoulders through doorways_ ) lumbers around a corner and spots them. Porthos bares his teeth and steps in front of d’Artagnan, his shoulders dropping like he intends to rush the man in the manner of a battering ram.

“Master Broulard!” the man shouts over his shoulder. “Monsieur! The offender is escap--” The man’s shout is expelled in a gust of air, forced out of him by Porthos’ shoulder slamming into his gut and driving him to the ground. d’Artagnan frantically looks around for a weapon of some kind as the two large men wrestle for the upperhand. Before d’Artagnan can find anything remotely suitable, Broulard’s valet pins Porthos to the ground with a knife’s edge digging slightly into his throat.

“You’ll _all_ feel the whip now,” he sneers. 

d’Artagnan moves to help, but he’s stopped by the click of a hammer being pulled back. Aramis steps into the hall to press his pistol insistently against the valet’s temple. He only says one word, but the threat of murder is so tightly coiled in those three letters that d’Artagnan feels a chill slither down his spine.

“ _Off_.”

The valet hesitates, for only a second, and Aramis jabs the barrel of the gun harder against his flesh. Athos joins them in the hall entryway with a harried Broulard next to him.

“This is _beyond unacceptable_ ,” Broulard whines.

“Monsieur, it’s about to be beyond unacceptable and _bloody_ ,” Aramis snaps, his attention never leaving the man who is still holding a blade to Porthos’ throat. There’s a line of blood welling up beneath the knife’s edge and d’Artagnan holds his breath as Aramis lowers his voice to a terrifying whisper. “Tell your man to back down or you’ll need to repaint these walls very, very soon.”

Broulard’s valet swallows, shifting anxious eyes to his master. The quivering nobleman nods sharply and the tension in the hall lessens slightly as the valet eases up off of Porthos to sheath his knife. Athos clamps a gentle hand on Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis visibly relaxes and holsters his pistol. He reaches for Porthos, helping him to his feet with a tight clasp of their hands.

“This coulda gone better,” Porthos jokes grimly, a swipe of his hand over his neck coming away streaked in faint red. Aramis lifts careful hands to his friend’s throat, inspecting the wound with concerned eyes, and mutters something under his breath that makes Porthos’ mouth twitch.

“I suggest we adjourn to the den where we can discuss this like gentlemen,” Athos sighs. Broulard’s scoff is high-pitched and indignant, which makes d’Artagnan want to reach out and drag the man to the other room by his throat. He doesn’t, but it’s a close call. Instead, he squares his shoulders and leads the awkward march with as much dignity as he can muster. 

This whole situation is a _disaster_.

Thankfully, Athos has abandoned the pretense of anger towards d’Artagnan and he takes a place next to the nervous Musketeer, practically pressing their shoulders together in a show of support. d’Artagnan shifts a grateful look to his friend and is surprised to find the man has the hint of a smirk on his lips. Either the world has turned upside down or Athos has a plan.

“I had hoped to be sure of your safety before having this conversation, but we’ll simply have to make do,” Athos murmurs. Narrowing his eyes on Broulard, who is now perched awkwardly on a chaise with his valet hovering behind him, Athos barely waits for Aramis and Porthos to join them before launching into a carefully delivered speech.

“Monsieur Broulard. I realise you feel as if you have been mistreated in your own home, and by lowly soldiers with no station in comparison to yours, at that. I could correct you on the latter assumption…” he trails off with a sharply lifted brow and d’Artagnan is reminded that Athos is actually a titled noble, higher in stature than Broulard. “...But, I’d rather keep this polite. In the eight days we have been guests in your home, I have discovered a few things about you that are not public knowledge.”

Three Musketeers shift intense stares from their leader to the nobleman, who is suddenly looking a little green around the gills.

“I did not seek out this information. It came to me by chance and I had not formed any designs upon it. But as our situation has changed, so must my intentions.”

“ _How dare you thr--_ ”

“ _I’m not finished_ ,” Athos hisses. He hasn’t moved, and yet somehow d’Artagnan feels as though Athos has grown to fill the room completely. Broulard shrinks back into the cushions of the chaise. 

“Now,” Athos continues, his voice effortlessly regaining its cool, “I am confident that you have no desire to see... _one_...particular fact come to light. I imagine the Cardinal would be, shall we say, _displeased_ to find out that you have been--”

“Enough!” Broulard squeeks, leaping to his feet with fluttering hands and wide, panicked eyes. “ _Enough_. You have made your point! I…I think this has all just been a...a _misunderstanding_.”

Athos makes only the slightest attempt to temper his sharp-edged smile. “I agree. A terrible misunderstanding. Obviously, you are not crass enough to ever strike your servants with a whip. In fact, were someone to search your home tomorrow, I am _convinced_ they would _not find one_.”

The subtle threat is so expertly delivered that a few heavy seconds tick by before there is a reaction. Porthos covers his mouth with a fist and clears his throat, but that does nothing to hide the proud gleam in his eyes. d’Artagnan thinks he must have a similar look on his face as he watches Athos with a quiet adoration singing through his veins.

“We are scheduled to leave your gracious company at sunrise. We will do so quietly. Should our captain ask how our stay was conducted, I am sure you will inform him that we were on our best behaviour.”

Sputtering for a moment, Broulard eventually nods a few too many times. “Yes. Yes. _Of course_. It was entirely uneventful!”

Athos tilts his head to acknowledge Broulard’s surrender with tightly-coiled grace. “We thank you, then, Monsieur. For your _hospitality_. We will leave you to...any business you need to conduct.” He places a hand on d’Artagnan’s back and gestures to the other two Musketeers. 

It isn’t until they’re back at the outdoor table, with a few meager plates of supper obtained from the kitchens along the way, that anyone speaks again.

“Sometimes I forget how terrifying you can be when you speak, Athos,” Aramis smirks, a lifted fork paused in front of his mouth. “I do so love being reminded.”

“Amen to that,” Porthos grins. The infectious expression finds relieved smiles everywhere it lands.

\-----

The next day, when they’re riding their horses slowly across the countryside and the rest of the regiment is just out of earshot, d’Artagnan pulls up next to Athos and leans sideways in his saddle to speak.

“Thank you,” he whispers with quiet intensity. 

“It is I who should thank you, d’Artagnan. You enabled us to right a wrong. Perhaps not in the most...dignified of ways, but I’ll take what I can get,” Athos smirks. 

A pleased smile sweeps across d’Artagnan’s face before Aramis and Porthos pull up beside them like bookends.

“All right, Athos. Spill. What did our dear Monsieur Broulard _do_ that would have him in the Cardinal’s bad graces?” Aramis asks, lazily leaning forward in his saddle.

After a significant pause, Athos shrugs. “I have no idea.”

Shock shows clear as day on all three of the faces staring back at him. 

“He seemed the type to have at least a few skeletons in his closet.”

Floored silence shows no signs of relenting, so one edge of Athos’ mouth lifts in an uncharacteristically self-satisfied way. 

“I took an educated guess.” He pauses long enough to look slightly apologetic, but there’s a smug glint in his eye that betrays him. “...Otherwise known as a shot in the dark.”

Dozens of soldiers ahead turn in their saddles as the echo of Porthos’ shameless boom of laughter cracks through the air. 

“ _A shot in the dark_!” he howls, so clearly entertained that d’Artagnan suspects there is nothing in the world that could stop him and Aramis from laughing right along with him. 

It will be hours before Porthos stops abruptly whispering ‘ _a shot in the dark_ ’ and starts cackling all over again, but not one of them complains. Not even once.


End file.
